To Mr. W[illiam] Hammond.
Thou best of Friendship, Knowledge, and of Art!
The charm of whose lov’d name preserves my heart
From female vanities, (thy name, which there
Till time dissolves the fabric, I must wear!)
Forgive a crime which long my soul oppress’d,5
And crept by chance in my unwary breast,
So great, as for thy pardon were unfit,
And to forgive were worse than to commit,
But that the fault and pain were so much one,
The very act did expiate what was done.10
I, who so often sported with the flame,
Play’d with the Boy, and laugh’d at both as tame,
Betray’d by idleness and beauty, fell
At last in love, love both the sin and hell:
No punishment great as my fault esteem’d,15
But to be that which I so long had seem’d.
Behold me such: a face, a voice, a lute;
The sentence in a minute execute.
I yield, recant; the faith which I before
Deny’d, profess; the power I scorn’d, implore.20
Alas, in vain! no prayers, no vows can bow
Her stubborn heart, who neither will allow.
But see how strangely what was meant no less
Than torment, prov’d my greatest happiness;
Delay, that should have sharpen’d, starv’d Desire,25
And Cruelty not fann’d, but quench’d my fire.
Love bound me; now, by kind Disdain set free,
I can despise that Love as well as she.
That sin to friendship I away have thrown!
My heart thou may’st without a rival own,[10:1]30
While such as willingly themselves beguile,
And sell away their freedoms for a smile,
Blush to confess our joys as far above
Their hopes, as friendship’s longer-liv’d than love.
On Mr. Shirley’s Poems [1646].[11:1]
When, dearest Friend, thy verse doth re-inspire
Love’s pale decaying torch with brighter fire,
Whilst everywhere thou dost dilate thy flame,
And to the world spread thy Odelia’s name,
The justice of all ages must remit5
To her the prize of beauty, thee of wit.
Then, like some skilful artist, that to wonder[11:2]
Framing some[11:3] piece, displeas’d, takes it asunder,
Thou Beauty dost depose, her charms deny,
And all the mystic chains of Love untie.10
Thus thy diviner Muse a power ’bove Fate
May boast, that can both make and uncreate.
Next, thou call’st back to life that love-sick boy,
To the kind-hearted nymphs less fair than coy,
Who, by reflex beams burnt with vain desire,15
Did, phœnix-like, in his own flames expire;
But should he view his shadow drawn by thee,
He with himself once more in love would be.
Echo, (who though she words[11:4] pursue, her haste
Can only overtake and stop the last,)20
Shall her first speech and human voice[11:5] obtain,
To sing thy softer numbers o’er again.
Thus, into dying poetry, thy Muse
Doth full perfection and new life infuse.
Each line deserves a laurel, and thy praise25
Asks not a garland, but a grove of bays;
Nor can ours raise thy lasting trophies higher,
Who only reach at merit to admire.
But I must chide thee, friend: how canst thou be
A patron, yet a foe to Poesy?[11:6]30
|
For while thou dost this age to verse restore, Thou dost deprive the next of owning more; | } |
[11:7] |
And hast so far all future times surpass’d,[11:8]
That none dare write: thus, being first and last,
All their abortive Muses will suppress,35
And Poetry, by this increase, grow less.
On Mr. Sherburne’s Translation of Seneca’s Medea, and Vindication of the Author [1647-8].[12:1]
That wise philosopher who had design’d
To [th’] life the various passions of the mind,
Did wrong’d Medea’s jealousy prefer
To entertain the Roman theatre;
Both to instruct the soul, and please the sight,5
At once begetting horror and delight.
This cruelty thou dost once more express
Though in a strange, no less becoming dress;
And her revenge hast robb’d of half its pride,
To see itself thus by itself outvied,10
That boldest ages past may say, our times
Can speak, as well as act, their highest crimes.
Nor was’t enough to do his scene this right,
But what thou gav’st to us, with equal light
Thou wouldst bestow on him, nor wert more just15
Unto the author’s work, than to his dust.
Thou dost make good his title, aid his claim,
Both vindicate his poem and his name,
So shar’st a double wreath; for all that we
Unto the poet[12:2] owe, he owes to thee.20
Though change of tongues stol’n praise to some afford,
Thy version hath not borrow’d, but restor’d.